Crisis Core: Lying is a Dance for Two
by kysis-the-bard
Summary: Lying is a dance for two. Lazard, recently promoted to Director of SOLDIER, knows this all too well. But how much do the Turks know about the illegal activities behind his friendly disposition? During and before CCFF7. LazardxTseng, and others.
1. Prologue: Welcoming Committee

**Disclaimer: **I do not own CCFF7, the world, the characters, yada-ya. Square Enix does. I own the yaoi and writing.

**Warning:** If you don't like yaoi, run away. Yaoi, alcohol, language, etc. LazardxTseng and some other, more implied pairings. Potential for Crisis Core spoilers. There will be mention of SephirothxGenesis.

**Music:** (I always write to music, though I never include lyrics in the writing. I dislike songfics) The Crisis Core soundtrack is used a lot here.

**Author's Note:** I've been dying to write as Lazard and Tseng while working on my other fanfic (The Memory of Falling). This fic takes place during the events of my other fanfic, and will make reference to some of those events. Not to advertise for myself, but this one would make the most sense if the other fic is read first. Thanks! R&R is always cherished.

**LYING IS A DANCE FOR TWO**

**Prologue: Welcoming Committee**

It was a nice office, if cold. He had to be cold. That was what the people would expect of him, what SOLDIER would expect of him. He ran a white gloved hand over the glass desk; it still smelled brand-new. His eyes, behind rectangular glasses, raked over the sterile metal room. It was supposed to be _his_ office, and his office would not be so cold.

Lazard picked up the phone of the desk, dialing the number. A voice answered on the other side, Lazard making his request in a low, even voice. He gave exact directions. Being so thorough was part of his job. One misstated word and SOLDIER could be knocking down a mako reactor instead of fighting AVALANCHE, who attacked ShinRa on a regular basis. It was almost like clockwork.

Hanging up the phone, he looked around the office. It was empty right now, other than his simple desk, a computer and a phone on it. He needed to fix that… people were coming to help him with such a task, so Lazard could focus on other issues.

Like why there was a Turk in his office.

His ears had not heard the Turk enter, though his eyes spoke otherwise. A moderately young man came through the partial dividers keeping the main office separate from the waiting room, black hair in a ponytail, eyebrows angular, a dot on his forehead. Wutainese? In ShinRa? Lazard smiled at that thought, wondering how much President ShinRa had to pay to get such a person.

"May I help you?" Lazard asked in a careful tone, observing the immaculate black suit, the hawk-like nature of the man. Predatory brown eyes locked on Lazard, the Director of SOLDIER stepping behind his desk, as if the glass and metal structure would somehow give protection.

"You are Lazard Deusericus?"

That voice was low, lower than Lazard had expected, sharp and to the point. There was no accent. Lazard was not so much surprised by that as he was disappointed. The man, despite how lithe he was, would have been a lot less intimidating with a thick accent. "Yes." Caution was still paramount. Lazard sat, right hand on his knee. That knee was right next to the gun strapped on to the bottom side of his desk, in reach in case of emergencies. Not that this was an emergency, of course.

"President ShinRa extends the service of the Turks, as protection, to you so long as you hold the office of SOLDIER's director."

As cold and calloused as that voice was, the words did not register immediately. Then it hit him. Lazard let his elbows rest on the desk, white gloved fingers lacing together. He gazed levelly at the man standing just inside the office. "And you are?"

"Tseng of the Turks."

Lazard blinked a few times, pushing his rectangular glasses a little further up onto the bridge of his nose. Tseng was a name he knew. That was the head-man of the Turks, in charge, assigned with the most important of missions only. One such mission, Lazard (and most of ShinRa) knew about. Tseng had to babysit the wayward Rufus ShinRa. That had to gnaw at a man's sense of pride after a while. "A pleasure." Lazard offered out a hand to shake, not surprised when Tseng remained exactly where he was.

That was fine, too. Lazard was not exactly comfortable around the man. He was too… formal and cold, exactly what he was trying to hide in the office.

"Do you have any other business here, Tseng?"

The look Lazard got made him not speak any further for the moment. It was a 'I would not have come here had that been all' sort of look, full of warning. There was no irritation, though. That pale face remained a mask, only the brown eyes showing a thing, and that was just a hint. Lazard was good at taking hints. How else would he have climbed the ranks within ShinRa so fast?

"There will be a welcoming party for you at the Goblin Bar on Loveless Avenue tonight at 9:30 p.m. sharp." It was like he was giving a report rather than an invitation. Tseng was obviously a man who meant business. Lazard knew the place he spoke of, and merely nodded. "Our research says you are a regular."

"What else do you Turks know about me?"

A smile, barely visible it was so small, tugged at the corners of Tseng's wide lips. "You really do not want to know." Giving a curt nod, Tseng swiveled on his heel, making quick, effective strides from the room.

Perhaps Lazard really didn't. Then again, curiosity was a hard thing to ignore.


	2. Chapter I: Warmly

**Disclaimer:** CCFF7, Tseng, Lazard, Sephiroth and the Turks do not belong to me. Square Enix made them and such. The writing here, and the plot here are mine. Thanks. If CCFF7 was mine, there would be no allusions as to Sephiroth and Genesis being together. In fact, there would be a few flashbacks when Sephiroth is reminiscing. Yeah. Plus, I would make Lazard like he is here. Don't worry, he's not OOC, he's just… you'll see.

**Warning:** yaoi, copious amounts of alcohol, language, questionable situations, possible dark stuffs, etc. If you don't like yaoi, you shouldn't read here. Stay away! Some onesided SephxGen, and insinuated other couples.

**Author's Note:** I usually write my warnings before I write my chapters, so… be prepared for anything? I mean, I know there will at least be alcohol and yaoi in this chapter, just not sure about what else. If Reno gets any page-time, there'll be language too. I should stop rambling now. Wait, one more thing. Reviews are love. The reason I lost my inspiration for this piece had to be the lack of reviews. So please? Review?

**LYING IS A DANCE FOR TWO**

**Chapter I: Warmly**

The Turks were throwing him a welcome party. Lazard did not know if he should be thankful or worried. A mixture of both was allowed for now. He glanced around the sparse office, eyes roaming the empty book shelves, the bare desk. Putting his fingerprint upon the office would have to wait. There was a party to attend. What wouldn't a young executive such as him like about a party?

The fact that it was the Turks issuing said invitation ranked at the top of said list. Lazard knew a great deal about what the Turks did within the company, knew to steer clear of those wearing that inconspicuous yet at the same time blatantly obvious uniform. However, he knew nothing about the people within, except for Tseng of course.

And when it came to Tseng, all Lazard knew was the man's appearance, and the fact that he was a man of few words. From that stop in, the invitation, the body language, Lazard took him to be a work-aholic. Who wasn't so high in ShinRa? Lazard had put in hours upon hours of overtime in order to gain such a prestigious position, and he was sure this enigma, Tseng, had done exactly the same.

Only that brat, _recognized_ son of President ShinRa got to have his cake and eat it too.

Letting out a strained sigh, barely making it past his taut jaw, Lazard finally stood, tapping his fingers on his glass desk.

None of the new decorating could be done until tomorrow morning, and he officially assumed the position as Director of SOLDIER as of the same morning, so there was nothing more he could do in the office. Lazard let his eyes scrutinize the room, all the dark corners, of which there were none yet. With some more items in the room, there would be some shadows. Not yet. Lazard felt exposed, and didn't like it one bit.

Pursing his lips, making sure the buttons on his blue, pinstripe suit jacket were immaculate, he finally strode, straight backed from the room.

It was only 8:30 p.m., but why not freshen up? Lazard always looked his best, whether off duty or on it, five in the morning or midnight. There were no exceptions. It was a façade to keep up, something he would never let go of, especially not with the open seat of Vice President within his sights. It was so close, he could almost taste it. Lazard had to pause his walking for a moment, take a deep breath to clear the imagery from his mind. It was so sweet, so close, and still out of his reach. And, he had to deal with a certain pre-teen named Rufus ShinRa, a genius, yes, but a little sadist already, with only his personal pleasure and gain in mind.

Lazard had hoped ShinRa might be more than that, someday. If he got the Vice Presidential position, it would. And then President would follow, and there would be no blind, overweight, stupid man in his way. Everything was laid out before him and… that was still a while off.

Forcing himself to walk again, he made easy, calm strides to the glass elevator, swiping his security card before gliding in, waiting patiently with his gloved hands clasped before him.

A welcoming party; Lazard hoped the head of the Turks had merely delivered the invitation, not actually planned it. What would such an austere, cold man do to welcome someone? Lazard, with this as much as with his file in the office of the Turks (every ShinRa employee had one), did not want to know. If the air was dreary, he would most likely have himself a drink and ignore all else for the lovely piano, or leave. Since it was technically his party, he could leave whenever he wanted.

The lights of his car came to live as he pressed the button to disarm the alarm. It was sleek, black, with two doors and darkly tinted windows. Lazard slid onto the comfortable, heated leather seat, closing the door and buckling the seat belt, ever cautious. Working the wood inlaid stick-shift, he rolled out of the parking structure, going straight to his apartment in the sprawling metropolis of the upper plate.

Lazard had been to the lower plate, lived on the lower plate, and he never intended to do as such again.

His apartment was warm but classy, personalized but still professional. Lazard merely had to step in for the lights to slowly fade from the black state they were in to a soft white radiance, the motion sensors letting the light travel with him into the bathroom.

A quick shower was called for, with soap, something he felt at times he could not get enough of. Hot water, soap, the Goblin Bar later, this promotion; it had been a good, fruitful week. Lazard dried off with the slightest quirk of a smile on his lips, throwing the towel at the hooks on the wall (and missing, which brought a frown for a fraction of a second). Leaving it for now, Lazard went to his wardrobe.

The suits were all pressed and orderly, arranged by color. Most suit jackets in there were blue, or shades of it. Lazard found a dark one, pulling it out and setting it on his ornate posted, king sized bed, putting a white dress shirt there as well. Pants were a debate. Normally, white was his color of choice. The brat had taken a liking to it as well, though, so Lazard pulled out black ones, recently pressed and still smelling just as fresh. Taking in a deep breath of the scent of clean, Lazard flipped through his neatly folded underwear, picking out a clean pair and slipping them on immediately.

Despite his slick, businessman appearance, he was in good shape. His muscles were defined, but not bulky, lean and streamlined since the only workout he ever got was the one he did at home, with his equipment, or in bed. He definitely wasn't Sephiroth, nor did he have need to be. Lazard did what he needed to. Staying at least in good shape, in good health, was necessary, so he did it.

The clock was ticking closer to nine already. Lazard planned on making the small walk to Loveless Avenue rather than driving it, as he planned on drinking tonight. Whether it was a lot or a little depended entirely upon the company, just as the company would decide which kind of alcohol he was drinking. Again, a matter of pretense, the mask; there were some people Lazard could hide nothing from (i.e. the Turks), so he would not bother. However, any other executives? The brat himself? The President? Lazard doubted the President would be there, even if he had known about the results of the birds and the bees.

It was a crisp night out, not so cold it was uncomfortable, but just cold enough to keep his senses sharp and his legs moving. Though he felt save enough on Loveless Avenue, Lazard had read the book full of warnings all executives got upon assuming their positions. Thus, there was a snub-nosed revolver in a holster under his pressed, sapphire suit jacket. Probably only a Turk would even notice it, as the holster was fitted perfectly to him, and the suit pressed in just a way that no bulge could be seen, just sleek and natural lines.

The Goblin Bar was a place he had been going to since he was old enough to get in, and since he had the money to do so. His mother was not rich. Far, far from it. Poor even. So, it was a guilty pleasure, but one he would not deny himself once all the bills had been taken care of and they were set to relax a little more easily. Lazard had a good mind for numbers, knew just how to get by while still having some change to spare for his escape from the Slums. The Goblin Bar was just that escape. The smooth piano music, the sophisticated crowd, the smoke, the fancy drinks; it was a goal, a tangible one he could see, right there before him, something to work up towards. Now it was not so much a matter of money, but a matter of time.

With this new promotion, he would have less and less time to do this. It was like a going away celebration to his freedom as much as it would be a welcoming into the upper echelon.

Making one last turn around a cobbled corner, Lazard could see the big, lit letters of the bar. There was a solitary form standing outside, with his hands in his pockets, an austere, hawkish look directed levelly at the main street leading from the plaza into Loveless Avenue. There was no mistaking the man. He still had his black hair pulled back, and it looked as though that pressed black suit, and others just like it, had to be the only thing in his wardrobe. Lazard was starting to wonder.

The next train of thought was if the man, Tseng, would be celebrating as well, or if he was on duty during all of this. That was a serious possibility. Since Lazard was now considered important enough to have Turk bodyguards, there was sure to be someone watching out for him even here. But Tseng? Didn't the head of the Turks need a night off now and then? Lazard had more sense of self preservation than to ask, though, and he remained silent, offering a businesslike smile and a nod as he passed through the door, noting that Tseng came in with him.

Some people close to the piano, at the circular booth there, and that side of the bar top itself, stood up and waved. Considering the suits he saw, mostly Turks. There were two SOLDIER First Classes as well, none other than Sephiroth himself, and Leo Elstair, whom was the same age as Lazard, but still a good combatant. They did not sit next to one another, giving a certain respectful distance.

Since this would be Lazard's first time actually working with SOLDIER, he did not know the ins and outs of everything. He had only heard rumors, and those couldn't be trusted. Not showing any inclination that he was out of place, as he wasn't, Lazard walked right up, giving a casual 'hi guys' and a wave, before sliding down onto the booth, right next to the only woman present, a Turk.

She looked surprised, sitting up and blinking, brows furrowing in. There was some drink before her, and Lazard could tell immediately that it was non-alcoholic. Were any of the Turks off duty at this gathering? Either that, or she was underage. Considering how small she was, he would not be surprised. "Um, Director Deusericus, Sir…" She gave a look beyond him and up, which had Lazard's gaze following her, to the standing form of Tseng, right next to the table. "That was Tseng's seat…"

Not saying a word, he also sat down, leg brushing Lazard's. The Wutaian Turk did not seem phased in the least, taking up the end spot on that half of the booth, slender fingers laced together atop the table. He leaned over a little, looking past Lazard and speaking in his usual, measured voice. "This is fine."

A waitress dressed in a fringe covered dress walked over, placing a martini glass before him, and he only had to take a small look at it to tell what exactly it was: a lemon-drop martini, his absolute favorite. A smile quirked up at the corner of his lips, rising on the right side. "What else is in my file?"

Tseng leaned back on the padding of the booth, a smug look in his eyes, though it showed nowhere else on his face. The waitress put a crystal glass before him, with a bronze-ish liquid inside, definitely not the type of drink found in Wutai. Then again, Lazard was stereotyping. Both of his original assumptions were wrong. Considering the fact that Tseng worked for ShinRa while Wutai was still unwelcoming of the company, Lazard wondered. What had happened in that far away country to make the man defect? Did he shun everything of Wutaian descent now?

Seeing Tseng take a sip of his own drink made Lazard relax. It was going to be a good night.

0 0 0 0 0

Why the Turks would be throwing Lazard Deusericus a welcoming party was a secret, like many of the things going on behind ShinRa's walls. Tseng's lips were sealed. He let a thin smile twitch at the corner of his lips from over his glass, still mostly full. Hawk-like eyes focused across the room, a splash of silver against the deep browns and reds of the bar's interior out of place.

Who would not recognize the up and coming star of SOLDIER? Tseng took another sip, watching the young man like a predator might, though not with those intentions. He was a master of observation. A simple glance over could reveal a person's lifestyle to him, a simple sniff giving away even the most intimate details. Tseng was not close enough to smell, no, but he could see the faraway look in those mako green eyes, their slits dilated just enough to tell the Wutaian Turk that something was going on in that head of his.

Feline grace propelled him away from his seat at the bar, a cushioned stool, strides long and smooth taking him straight across the room. None of his Turks tried to stop him. They knew how to spot a man on a mission, as trained to. For a second Reno looked as though he would try to stop Tseng. Luckily for the redhead, he kept silent. Tseng breezed past them, taking a silent seat next to the young SOLDIER, another sip coming with it.

Surprisingly enough, Sephiroth did not even move at Tseng's sitting next to him. He did not snap out of his thoughts. He did not even seem to notice the lean framed Turk sit down, much less so close. That was out of the ordinary. Hojo would have thrown a fit. Normally Sephiroth was sharper than the masamune, always alert, always on ball.

Not tonight, it would seem, and the silver haired youth did not even have a drink in front of him yet.

"Daydreaming?"

With a start, Sephiroth jumped, eyes narrowing as he cast a keen glare at Tseng. He had been caught and knew it. That smile twisted slightly more on Tseng's lips. Normally he would have given himself a victory sip, but he needed to slow down. He was a featherweight when it came to alcohol and would prefer to conceal it seamlessly, like he did with everything else of his personal life. Tseng planned on only having one drink all night, slowly sipping at it so no one noticed that he could not stomach alcohol.

Since Sephiroth made no sound other than a low, irritated grunt (Tseng had been hoping for an explanation), he prodded with his low, skillful voice. It was so smooth one might have considered it a purr. That was how Tseng got people to talk so easily. "Someone take your fancy?"

The moment of hesitation, or rather few moments, made Tseng think the tight-lipped SOLDIER would remain his usual, reserved, privative self. He was wrong, thankfully, when the young man gave a nod, some of that distracted look returning to his eyes. Tseng almost let out a sigh of relief, but held it back, carefully. It was his job to be as cool and level headed as he was acting now, even if this was off hours. Tseng demanded respect, and half of it came from the fact people thought he was always so professional, and that it was not just a carefully planned act.

He had more important matters to focus on now, like getting the hero to talk. "Does this special someone have a name?"

Surprise flashed across those facial features for a mere second, before he went back into a blank slate. Tseng interpreted it to mean that Sephiroth did not know this crush's name. That would make this more difficult, though decidedly less awkward. "What do they look like?" He was careful not to say she or he in the question, just to save himself future trouble. Tseng had no idea what someone so abnormal as Sephiroth would be into. He left the gender question open. No need to alienate him when answers were just starting.

"Gorgeous."

Tseng took another sip, deciding he would need it. Sephiroth was not helping him get anywhere. This was like pulling teeth, even. Tseng remembered that being a most unpleasant experience, and this was ranking in line with it. "Do you like their hair? Eyes? Anything?" Tseng prodded, refusing to name a gender again. Gorgeous did not say male or female, not that Tseng had any right to know. Wait, he was a Turk. He had a responsibility to know.

"He has hair like fire." Sephiroth spoke slightly higher than he usually would, a wistful tone to his musings. A faint smile touched his pale lips. "And eyes like ice."

How poetic. Tseng tried scanning his recent memory. There was no one like that in SOLDIER. In fact, there were no redheads in SOLDIER. Reno had green eyes, so that was ruled out immediately, and thankfully. Tseng might have lost his dinner had it been Reno. Who…?

Oh.

Just recently they had visited Banora to get a full tour of the facilities there. Tseng remembered it well. The Banora White pie was absolutely exquisite. He let his mind scan over the whole ordeal, remembering the redheaded son of Mayor Rhapsodos, who was so confident and eager, offering some of the pie to Sephiroth. The funny part of it all was that Sephiroth had refused, dashing all that enthusiasm and hero worship in an instant. To think, Sephiroth was more caught by him than his cold denial let on.

"You could always ask for an assignment to Banora. I am sure the new Director wouldn't mind." Tseng glanced over in time to see pink dust across Sephiroth's cheeks. The great hero was blushing? That deserved a victory sip, which he took. There was a warm buzz hovering in his brain, but it was still not too much to think through. That would take two drinks, which Tseng never planned on getting to. "If you were to ask for a taste of Banora while you are there, I'm sure a certain _someone_ wouldn't mind serving you himself."

That blush only deepened, Sephiroth looking down at the table. Tseng noticed a nervous swallow, shaking his head. This was going to be an interesting night. However, any further questioning proved fruitless, Tseng trying and getting nothing but that somewhat dazed, slightly embarrassed silence. Not long after he and Leo left, no doubt because they both had early morning duties. Tseng did as well, though he was used to being up and about late at night, only to rise in the early hours. Sleep depravation was an art for the Turks.

With a click, another glass was set before his now empty one. Tseng's eyes narrowed, though there was no other outward sign of his distaste; it was masked with distrust. The Director slid into the booth across from him moments later, the Turks present having dispersed, and the SOLDIERs present having already left, leaving the whole booth open.

"Thank you for welcoming me so warmly." Lazard raised his own glass a little, voice as low and smooth as when they first meant, meaning either the alcohol had yet to effect him, or he was very good at disguising it. Grudgingly, Tseng lifted his own glass, clinking the rims together before taking a sip. He knew he would have to somehow discretely discard of the drink, lest he become impaired in any way.

Forcing a barely visible upturn at the corner of his lips, he bided his time across from Lazard, wishing in his mind that the man would go back to the other Turks already.

0 0 0 0 0

The piano music had taken a turn for loud and obnoxious. Reno, the redheaded Turk with the goggles, was much the same. Lazard sagged down comfortably into the plump cushion of the booth, an elbow on the table, cheek resting in his gloved palm. His eyes were not really focused through his glasses, not that it mattered.

It was nice, just listening to the measured, flowing tones of Tseng's voice as he told stories about botched missions (none of which were his fault), words slipping now and then into Wutainese, not that Lazard minded. It was a pretty language. Every so often he would drag his lazy eyes up from the table, their slowly, slowly focusing on the Turk across from him.

At some point, Lazard couldn't remember when, Tseng had loosened his tie a little, that very top button of his white dress shirt undone. It made him look slightly more relaxed. To Lazard, at least, it was now obvious that the Turk was off duty, even if his ebony hair was still pulled back into a ponytail. He wanted to steal the band holding it.

Another drink placed before him distracted him from that urge, Lazard smiling lopsidedly.

The music sounded more stilted, none of the rhythms or words making sense to him any longer. The lights looked too bright in places, and black in others. He was sure they had all been even not too long ago. It took him longer and longer to understand exactly what Tseng was saying.

"You're drunk." There was a glazed look to Tseng's brown eyes, and he tried hiding his smile with a balled up hand. It failed, though, Lazard spotting it.

The Director shook his head, sinking a little more into the comfortable pads of the booth. It felt so nice…

"You should not walk home alone tonight." Though the words were logical, professional, Lazard did not agree. He did not live that far away. Tseng took another sip of his drink, finishing that glass off. Though the Turk had an easier time hiding it, he was sloshed too.

"It's jus' a few blocks…" Lazard stumbled as he stood, a hand on his arm stabilizing him. It was Tseng. Lazard tried to thank him, but it came out incomprehensible.

"Come on. Let's go."


	3. Chapter II: Functioning

**Diclaimer: **I do not own FF7 or any related characters, places, etc, etc. Those are all the work of Square Enix. This fanfic is written by me.

**Warnings:** yaoi, implied yaoi, mentions of alcohol, cigarette smoking, language, etc, etc. M for a reason? If you don't like any of the things listed, this fic is not for you. Please run away now.

**Author's Note:** My muse is hungry, and it is craving reviews. Wow that was corny. Ok, please read and review. As stated before, this story happens during the same timeline as The Memory of Falling, and there will be some cross-references, as could definitely be seen in the last chapter. And, as a last point…. Don't hate me. You'll see why as you read.

**LYING IS A DANCE FOR TWO**

**Chapter II: Functioning**

The alarm started roaring its awakening trumpets far too early, Lazard opening his eyes to slits, a blurry rendition of the bedside table coming into view, but not focus. Vaguely he could make out the time, 4:00am. It was that time already? Reaching over, a heavy hand landed on the top of the alarm clock, clumsily smacking it to snooze.

It was warmer than usual in bed, beneath his thin sheets, the cool temperature of his dark bedroom all the more daunting because of it. He remained where he was on his stomach, head turned to the side, bloodshot eyes open, watching the smudge that was the clock, as it ticked over to 4:01. He needed to get moving. A nice long shower was in order, so…

The bed shifted beside him.

Despite the low throb of a headache racing through his head, despite the momentary grogginess, the fatigue of too much alcohol and not enough time to sleep it off, Lazard's first instinct took control, right hand reaching onto the bedside table, beneath the lip, and he turned on the bed, pistol in hand, pointing it. At the same moment as the end of his barrel touched something, the cold tip of another barrel was right at his forehead as well.

Taking a deep breath, he tried swallowing back the sudden lump in his throat. His eyes were wide, trying to focus, only partially managing without the corrective lenses of his glasses. There was a cascade of black hair framing a somewhat light skinned face, dark eyes narrowed dangerously at him. Who looked like…

They both said each other's names in unison, shock and revulsion tainting both.

Hand shaking, Lazard pulled his gun back first, placing it slowly on the bedside table, grabbing his glasses and pushing them on. He blinked a few times as Tseng withdrew his own gun. The Wutaian's hair was loose, falling like an obsidian fan around his face, those brown eyes as keen as ever despite the fact that he had been asleep just moments earlier. A detail Lazard hadn't noticed before was the dot on the Turk's forehead, the mark seeming exotic for some reason.

Tseng quickly slid out from under the covers on the other side of the bed, standing and cringing for a moment. There was a purple hicky just above his left collarbone, a reddish-pink ring of flesh next to that from a hard bite. Now that Lazard was stirring, he could feel the nail marks on his back, his arms, and he glanced, seeing them.

The worst part of it all? He couldn't remember anything. He did not even remember leaving the Goblin Bar, much less getting home and then… _fucking_ Tseng.

Lazard flopped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, letting the erratic drum of his heart, the adrenalin, die down. Having a gun pointed at his head was not a good way to wake up, though he had returned that favor to Tseng; it was more of a tandem act, actually.

The Wutaian Turk walked around the room for a moment, every movement fluid. His hair was still in a chaotic halo about his face as he looked for his clothing. Tseng picked up his tie, which had been tightened enough to bound together wrists; at least that was what Lazard thought when he saw it synched down like that. It had been a rough night, to say the least. Tseng's porcelain, chiseled body was sleek, muscles rippling with every movement. Those muscles were not formed like those of a SOLDIER would be, but were still strong, though agile. The agility was what made him such an effective Turk, no doubt.

Quickly, he turned his gaze away as Tseng turned back around, catching a view of the front on his way to staring at the clock again. The alarm started again. Lazard reached over, fingers pinching the knob and sliding the setting to off. Sitting up, he ran a hand through his oily hair, cringing. The sheets slipped down around his waist, and he had to fight not to pull the cloth back up around his shoulders.

"You don't remember it, do you?" There was a dark smile on the Turk's lips. From that taunting look, Lazard knew in a moment that Tseng _definitely_ remembered. That made all the color, at least what little was left, drain from his face. "Don't you have a job to be getting to?"

"Don't you?"

Tseng pulled on his pants, doing the belt quickly. Circling the room, he found his dress shirt, which was crinkled. His angular black brows dipped together as he buttoned it up. The tie was a different matter all together, taking a while to loosen out of its tightly knotted state. By the time Tseng was focused on retying the crumpled silk, Lazard was up, grabbing a towel and slipping into the palatial bathroom.

He needed a hot shower right now. Or maybe a cold one. Either way, he needed to wash off the night's sins.

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Stepping into the back elevator, Tseng straightened his suit jacket, pressing the button he needed before looking into the reflective surface of the glass. His hair was still slightly damp from his shower, pulled up into its usual ponytail, as neat and perfect as always. He was wearing a fresh suit, already having dropped his one from last night off at the cleaners. Everything was as it should be…

The elevator dinged sooner than it should have, Tseng looking angrily up at the numbers before the glass doors slid open, revealing his destination. Taking a step with his usual gusto, he flinched, having to adjust his walk without being suspicious. His walk ended up being slow and fluid, taking him at a leisurely yet certain pace. He knew exactly where he was going and why; no one had any reason to question that.

"Heya, Bossman. I left that report on your desk." Reno passed him quickly, obviously trying to get away as fast as possible.

Glancing down at his watch, he confirmed the time. "It's ten minutes late."

Reno turned around, walking backwards now as he cupped his hands over his mouth to yell. "And so are you!" With a snicker, Reno righted his direction, scurrying around the corner before Tseng could do anything.

Shaking his head, Tseng turned right, going straight down the hall to his office. The door was open, unsurprisingly. He normally left it open, any files of a classified nature kept in the hidden back room, under lock and key. Flicking on the lights, he gingerly sat down, trying not to make too much of a face at the feeling.

He'd had worse before. He had too many scars to count by now, smattered here and there on his fair skin. Why was _this_ such a problem?

Flicking on the computer, he groaned as his ass rubbed against the firm leather of the chair. It was going to be one long, _long_ day.

And the worst part? Despite his bluffing, he didn't remember any of it.

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Lazard glanced down at his watch, blue-grey eyes lazily taking in the sight of the time. Reaching down with white gloved fingers he pulled out the pin, winding the gears so that they had enough tension to work for a while yet. The watch was a beautiful thing, an antique. Normally he would not wear such a thing, especially not at work, but he needed something to distract him. This one did it precisely on the hour, every hour, needing another wind.

Leaning back, he drew his leg up so the heel rested on his other knee. It was a comfortable position, and a comfortable chair. Running his hands back over the leather arms, he forced a smile, eyes fluttering to slits behind his glasses. Already, an impression of himself was being left upon the cold office, warming it up a bit. There was still work to be done, but that could wait.

The official announcement of his new position as the head of SOLDIER had gone without any problems, far smoother than he had been expecting, actually. The Turks who had briefed him, a bald man of few words and an over-talkative redhead, told him that anything could happen, and that there had been a few believable threats placed concerning his head.

Luckily, he had yet to see Tseng around. The elusive head of the Turks was off doing something or another, Lazard did not care to know what, and that was perfectly fine with him.

Right now, he had his very first executive board meeting to be attending to.

Standing smoothly, straightening his pinstriped blazer, he walked for the elevator, pulling out his newly modified keycard to swipe it. The green light was given, and soon he was powering upward in the ShinRa Tower, just as he had been powering upward in the ShinRa ranks. That top level was so close, just above his head; he could almost reach up and brush it. Right there, and yet, he was still not close enough.

His gait was leisurely as he came through the wide double doors, posture and half-smile screaming of confidence. Faces turned to see him, take in this new comrade who was joining them. Lazard recognized them more by reputation than looks. Scarlet was impossible to miss, with her appropriately colored dress and swept up blond hair. Some men might have found her pretty. He was not among them.

Heidegger let out a deep, long laugh, Lazard quirking a blond brow, though continuing closer to the table. He knew that he had to keep a calm, resolute face. This was his first day amongst them, and thus, they would all be susceptible to first impressions. He let his gaze rake over the others, including Hojo, whom he nodded at, and Reeve, who was staring straight ahead with drawn in brows. That man always had something on his mind.

The brat, Rufus ShinRa, was a while down the table from him, which was a relief. Lazard did not want that kid any closer. The only person Lazard offered a smile for was the man at the end of the table. He was in a red, double-breasted suit, blond hair slicked down, blue eyes piggish. He offered a smirk back. Lazard had never seen something so slimy in his life.

A chill ran up his spine. Lazard knew someone was watching him, and knew immediately that he had been looking in the direction of President ShinRa too long. Turning his head just slightly, he could see a form mostly concealed in shadows, just a little light hitting that face for a moment, before it was gone again. Tseng. Lazard's eyes narrowed as he sat in his newly appointed seat.

"You'll get used to the Turks soon enough." Scarlet purred this, glancing towards the shadows before returning his gaze to the stack of papers before her.

Lazard fought the urge to roll his eyes. He didn't lean back in his chair, like he might have. The scratches across his back and arms burned a little still. He was only the Director of SOLDIER; he could not heal like them himself.

Everyone was at the meeting now, no more waiting to be done. Lazard was mildly surprised to see the proceedings begin early, though he was impressed all the same. This was one more step up the ladder. He would just have to get used to the Turks—Tseng—being around.


End file.
